Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

powder blue eyes of
his, she'd crumbled like a month-old cookie? Was it because
he'd taken old Ezra off her hands? It seemed a likely excuse.
After all, one good deed deserved another, and Lord knows
she wasn't about to take her father to the bathhouse herself,
much as the old codger did need a bath. But then she had to
confess there was more to it than that.
    Emma dusted even faster. Truth was, she wasn't willing
to delve much deeper into her reasons for relenting. All she
knew was that the town's young preacher was about to make
his hone in this very room, and she'd best get it ready for him.
She lifted a lace doily from the chest of drawers, gave it a little
shake and replaced it, smoothing down the corners with care.
Then she glanced up at the ancient picture hanging crooked
above the chest and righted it.
    Standing back, she made a sweeping assessment of the room:
clean sheets on the old four-poster bed, braided rug freshly
beaten, gingham curtains laundered and pressed, and the
cracked leather seat of the old wooden rocker wiped clean. She
had no idea when Jon Atkins planned to move into Mr. Dreyfus's
old room, but at least it would be ready for him when he did.

    She dropped her hands to her sides and felt a bulge in her
apron pocket. Stuffing her hand into her pocket she withdrew
the lone wool sock she'd found under Mr. Dreyfus's bed, the
one she'd darned for hint on numerous occasions. More than
likely, he hadn't missed it yet, but cone winter he'd be wondering what had become of it.
    Fingering the woolen fabric, an unwelcome nieniory poked
to the surface.
    Blustery winds sneaked through the cracks of the poorly heated
cabin, the pile of firewood next to the stone fireplace dwindling down
to almost nothing. Papa staggered through the door, eyes watery
red, snowy boots leaving a trail of white on the just swept rug as he
stomped his feet. An icy look on his round, whiskered face matched the
frigid temperatures. Emma shivered in the straight-back chair and
drew the wool blanket up closer around her neck, tucking the book
she'd been reading beneath its folds.
    "What you doin, girl?" he growled, slamming the door shut
behind him, eyes narrow and suspicious. "How come I don't smell no
supper cookie'?"
    "We're outta most all the food, Papa. All that's left is some flour
and oil and a few cans of beans." She drew her knees up close to her
chest, hoping he wouldn't find her book. He'd accuse her of laziness
for sure. No matter that she'd spent the afternoon sweeping, dusting,
and shoveling a narrow path to the rickety old outhouse. Her tenyear-old muscles felt sore and fatigued.
    "Then cook the lousy beans, missy."
    "We've had beans three times this week, Papa."
    As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to reclaim them.
Papa didn't take nicely to backtalk. He reached her in two long strides
and gave her the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough
to knock her off the chair, sending her precious book of Bible stories
in another direction.

    With his beefy hand he retrieved the book and held it at arm's
length. Papa squinted his bloodshot eyes at the cover and tried to
make out the title. "What's this nonsense?" he asked.
    "Miss Abbott gave it to me," she confessed, her cheek still burning
like hot coals where his hand had struck it. She wouldn't mention the
book's contents.
    "That lady what runs the boardinghouse? How many times I
gotta tell you to stay away from that religious crazy?"
    Emma pulled herself upright. "Can I have my book back, Papa?"
she squeaked out, ignoring his remark. Miss Abbott was as close as
Emma would ever come to having a mother, or a grandmother, for
that matter. Nearly every day after school she took an extra minute
to swing by the older woman's boardinghouse to receive a warm hug
and, if she was lucky, cookies and a tall glass of milk.
    Papa took one look at the fireplace. The fire was now only a
few red embers. Without a second's